I crossed the moat and passed through the thick stone of the tower to find the living quarters in a state of disarray, just as they had been when the soldiers had used their eighteen-pounder gun to breach the walls.
My clan had escaped through the tunnels, leaving their meals half eaten. Since then, during a brief occupation by the Mouldheels, the breach had been fixed – before the lamias had driven them out in turn. The floor was strewn with rubbish, and in the adjacent storeroom lay sacks of rotting potatoes and mouldy carrots, so it was fortunate that my spirit was unable to smell. Spiders’ webs covered in clusters of desiccated flies were strung from every corner. Cockroaches and beetles scuttled across the flags.
And there amongst the rubbish was the large locked chest that had belonged to Tom’s mother. It was safe.
All at once I noticed something that made me wonder. The chest was free of cobwebs. It wasn’t even dusty. And beside it stood a small pile of books. Had they been taken from the chest? If so, who had been reading them?
Because it had been guarded by the lamias, Tom Ward had left the chest unlocked. But someone had been here very recently, and no doubt they had delved inside. I felt a surge of anger. Where were the two lamias? How had this been allowed to happen?
I floated up the stairs and out onto the battlements, where I saw two more trunks; they had once contained the dormant bodies of the lamias. Abandoned, both were open to the elements and were covered in moss, like the stone flags beneath them. With everything appearing in shades of green, it was hard to tell whether the wood of the boxes was rotten or not.
I gazed out over the surrounding countryside. On every side the tower was surrounded by the trees of Crow Wood. All was still and silent. But suddenly I heard a distant cry that sounded like the shriek of a corpse-fowl, but somewhat deeper – as if it came from the throat of a much larger creature. Then a dark shape flew across the face of the green half-moon. It was a lamia heading back towards the tower.
She swooped towards me – four feathered wings, black-scaled lower body, talons gripping something. She circled the tower twice, then dropped her prey onto the battlements close to where I was hovering. It hit the flags with a dull thump, and blood splattered across the flags. It was a dead sheep. The lamia had been out hunting. But where was her sister? I wondered.
The creature swooped towards the tower again, and instinctively I reached for my blades. Then I remembered my present state. Even clothed in flesh this would not have been a good place to face the lamia.
She landed on a trunk, curved talons gripping the wood – which was clearly not rotten. The creature was formidable, and would be difficult to defeat even if she could not fly. She was bigger than I was – maybe nine or ten feet tall if she ever stood upright. Those rear limbs were strong and taloned, able to carry a heavy weight such as a sheep or cow, but the forelimbs were more human, with delicate hands that could grip a weapon; the claws were slightly longer than a woman’s fingernails but exceedingly sharp – able to tear open a face or slice into a neck.
The lamia gazed directly at me and I suddenly realized that she could see me. It was night, but the moon was surely casting enough light to make me invisible. Either she had exceptionally keen sight or she was using powerful dark magic.
The creature opened her mouth to reveal sharp fangs, and spoke to me in a hoarse, rasping voice:
‘Who are you, witch? What do you want here?’
I was unable to reply. Perhaps there was a way for a disembodied sprit to communicate, but it was a shamanistic skill that I had never learned. And I was puzzled by the fact that this feral lamia could actually speak. It suggested that she was beginning to shape-shift slowly back to her ‘domestic’, almost human form; in this shape, only a line of green and yellow scales running down the length of her spine would betray her true nature.
‘Sister, I think we have a spy here. Send her on her way!’
The feral lamia was no longer looking at me; she inclined her head, with its heavy-lidded eyes, towards the doorway.
I turned to follow her gaze. A woman was standing there, staring straight at me. I looked more carefully and realized that, in fact, she was more beast than woman. The other lamia had already shape-shifted to a point where she had arms and legs and stood upright. However, she was still a monstrous thing and had some way to go to complete the transformation. She breathed heavily, like a predatory beast about to spring, and her arms were too long – the hands hung well below her knees. The face was savage, but there was intelligence in the eyes, and the high cheekbones showed the beginnings of beauty.
She cried one word, ‘Avaunt!’ – hurling it against me with palpable force.
It was a word from the Old Tongue; a spell. The alternative words for that dark spell are ‘Be gone’. She was driving me away and, in my spirit form, I had no power to resist.
I felt a tightening of the invisible cord that bound me to my dying body, and I was snatched backwards from the battlements. But not before I had seen something else.
The other lamia was holding a leather-bound book in her left hand. Was it something that she had taken from Tom’s mother’s trunk?
Suddenly I was being dragged back over the trees of Crow Wood. Everything became a blur, and with a thud I was in my body and felt pain again. I tried to open my eyes but I was too weary. Then I heard another thud and realized it was the beating of my heart. It was a slow, ponderous beat; it seemed to me that it was about to fail, weary of keeping the blood coursing through my dying body.
My life as a witch assassin was over. But I had trained Thorne well. There was someone to take my place.
I closed my eyes and fell into a deep darkness, accepting death. It was over and there was nothing more that I could do.
Malkin Tower is the dark spiritual home of our clan. Many grieve its loss but I care nought, for each place I fight is home. My blades have a home too – in the hearts of my enemies.
BUT THAT WAS not the moment appointed for my death. I awoke to find Agnes bathing my forehead.
She smiled and helped me up into a sitting position, placing pillows behind my back.
‘I’ve been in a really deep sleep,’ I said.
‘Yes – a coma that lasted almost three days.’
‘I’m cured?’ I asked. I felt weak and a little light-headed, but the fever had gone and I was breathing normally. My brain was sharp and clear – I felt alert.
The smile died on her face. ‘I’m not sure that “cured” is the right word,’ she said. ‘After much trial and error I finally found an antidote and it saved you from death. But whether you will make a full recovery is uncertain.’